


Team-building Exercise

by Anecdoche (so_psychso)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Desk Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Season 1 (or somewhere before established canon), Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_psychso/pseuds/Anecdoche
Summary: The archival staff are no strangers to mandated workplace decorum. Sometimes, however, it's best to stretch that definition, just a bit.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Comments: 10
Kudos: 291





	Team-building Exercise

**Author's Note:**

> Little a Jontim treat bc I'm a genius and also this art throttled me 
> 
> https://twitter.com/aandlatitude/status/1251680468333817858

There are a great many grievances Tim takes with his boss. How he comes to work obscenely early, leaving just as late, with the full and unspoken expectation that his underling assistants will follow suit. How he immerses himself so thoroughly in statements, sometimes, that he’ll emerge from his office in a daze he far too readily takes out on one of them if they cross his path in the wrong direction. Not to mention that ridiculous, uptight image he clings to, all sweater vests and prim slacks that accentuate his arse _quite_ unfairly. Neither does Tim appreciate his habit of chewing pens, or, in the case of unavailability, the pad of his thumb, the plump curve of his lips nibbling against equally soft flesh.

The list, as it were, goes on— _has_ been doing so about four months, now, Tim increasingly and devastatingly aware of the fact he might just have a bloody _crush_ on the bastard. And it kept going on and on, right down to the brass tacks of their ill-advised soiree last week, when, after nearly a half year of semi-genuine advances, Tim found himself with a lapful of Jon and his mouth brimming over with his boss’s moans.

It was an accident. These things always are. The perfect storm, a fever pitch, the last straw, _etcetera, etcetera_. Point is, somehow they’d both ended up the last ones in the Archive, similarly pent up with the stress of a statement they’d been researching for a week straight that had, thus far, garnered no discernible leads. Jon had called Tim into his office. They’d talked. They’d vented. They both agreed to tackle the rest tomorrow. They made to leave. And then… Tim made the irrevocable mistake of letting his hand fall to the small of Jon’s back as they tarried at the door—always the bloody gentlemen, isn’t he?—and, well, somehow—some sort of _how_ Tim still hasn’t been able to parse the linearity of—things led to other things, which led to, well, Jon in his lap and Tim’s tongue down his throat. 

Very, _very_ many things piss Tim off about his boss. 

This, however, he is more than happy to forgive.

And he’s feeling particularly generous at the moment, as is Jon, readily surrendering to Tim the moment he’d walked into his office. The day had been, well, a _day_. Chasing more dead leads, and acquiring a frankly impressive amount of malware on Sasha’s computer in an attempt to circumvent a conventional doc tracking method no longer at their disposal.

Tensions brewed, glances were cast.

_Do you want to -?_

_Christ, yeah._

And they’d strategized without a damn word between them, Tim usurping Martin’s filing efforts, and Jon assigning Sasha a bit of recon with the _gracious_ suggestion she just head home after, since it would be a waste of her time to come all the way back to the Institute. 

It being Friday and all lent more than a bit of favor their way, and Tim was darkening Jon’s door before the echo of Sasha’s heels had had a chance to fade.

Now, Tim’s got him up against the wall, Jon's frail wrists pinned in his fists, the tender skin beneath his ear latched between Tim’s teeth and abused to just that _perfect_ shade of too dark for Jon’s complexion to hide.

“ _Ff-hah,_ bastard,” Jon curses weakly, squirming against Tim’s grip. 

“I like your turtlenecks best,” Tim breathes against Jon’s pulse point, savoring the flutter of blood he coaxes to the surface in blooms of deepening purple. 

“Unless you wanna let everyone know what we’re up to—what you _let_ me do. Eh, boss?”

Tim pulls back to admire the indecent flush that flows across Jon’s nose and cheeks, like spilled port, heady and rich. 

“Keep this up,” Jon still manages to retort, “and I doubt you’ll have much to brag about, _Mr. Stoker_.”

“Can’t do with a bit of teasing?” Tim fires back, simultaneously wedging his knee between Jon’s, and grinding _up_.

Jon all but melts, his legs giving out completely.

“Jesus, boss,” Tim stares down at him, in awe. 

This is nothing like their first little tryst. Sure, it’d gotten about as hot and heavy as Tim is willing to indulge in a public place, and he’d been able to write off most of Jon’s especially—ah— _languid_ reactions. Stood like this, at the mercy of Tim’s hands and teeth, there’s no doubt to assuage the unmistakable. 

Just in case, Tim arches his knee again, encouraging Jon to straddle his thigh, fully, and skinny though he is, he sags bodily into the relief of the pressure.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Tim mumbles again, watching Jon struggle to lift his head and meet his gaze.

His mouth hangs open, panting, his eyes appraising through a half lidded haze, and a faint mist of sweat adorns his brow, soothed of its usual furrowed discontentment. He starts to say something, tongue working around another snit, but Tim’s faster, diving down and sucking at Jon’s lower lip before angling _just_ so, slotting their mouths together perfectly. A tangle of tongues and gasps and groans ensues, reaching a crescendo when Jon relinquishes his defiance and bites back, nipping the corner of Tim’s mouth, just enough to sting.

“ _Cheeky prick_ ,” Tim accuses fondly, and releases one of Jon’s hands to encircle his palm around Jon’s jaw.

“ _Nh-hm_ ,” Jon hums, surrendering himself to Tim’s ministrations, letting him caress down his neck, his chest. 

The band of his trousers… 

“ _Let me blow you_.”

The words escape Tim before his addled mind has even a prayer of catching up to his tongue, and Jon goes rigid.

One, two, several seconds lapse, counted out by the pulse in Tim’s throat, heavy and labored.

Their mouths are still pressed together, frozen mid kiss, Jon’s lips slack around a stopped-short moan. 

And then—

“Yes…” 

Small and anxious, the perfect complement to Jon’s helplessness in this situation, and it’s Tim’s turn to seize up.

“What?” He ventures, now pulling away to get a proper look at his boss. 

He’s a _sight_ . Collar rumpled, a string of hickies adorning his throat like black pearls. His eyes, still blown dark at the pupil, stare back at Tim. His mouth trembles. _He_ trembles, aching with a want that goes straight to Tim’s stomach as Jon rolls his hips, grinding himself properly against Tim’s thigh.

“I said _yes_ ,” he breathes, his gaze going darker, with a hunger Tim recognizes far too well for his own good.

He’s on his knees in an instant, and Jon’s hands follow him, tangling in his hair, petting at his cheeks, his jaw, thumbs caressing his lips as Tim works open Jon’s belt and fly. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, as Tim yanks his trousers down to mid thigh, and then his briefs.

He’d prefer to take his time with this, properly savor the novelty, but that would invite a far too healthy dose of absurdity and self-awareness, and right now, all Tim cares about is making Jon come. 

And, just as well, his cunt is begging for a mouth, Jon’s cock already flushed and swollen, and Tim wants nothing more than to bury his tongue inside Jon, taste him from the inside out, make him shudder to pieces. Instead, he gives Jon that initiative, lets Jon carefully guide his head forward.

“You sure about this, boss?” Tim hums, glancing up. Part of him frets over some aspect of coercion that might be at play, because this is all _quite a bit much_. And he waits. Waits. For a denial that isn't coming.

Until—

“ _Fuck me_.”

And, yeah… Tim could get used to _that_.

He moves in, tongue first with his thumbs massaging either side of Jon’s slick entrance, coaxing apart the silky flesh and neatly trimmed curls to afford him the best access to Jon’s cock. It’s a lovely little mouthful, hard and twitching against Tim’s tongue as he laps at it before sucking it fully between his lips. 

The shudder that arcs through Jon’s legs, the indecent _groan_ punching from his throat… Christ, Tim had been happy to relegate himself to simply a mouth for Jon’s use, but that is just _unfair_ , and, keeping one hand braced on Jon’s thigh, his thumb tracing delicate patterns at Jon’s entrance, Tim uses the other to shakily free his own cock. His attention flags, somewhat, as he fumbles with his belt, and Jon’s hands tighten in his hair, pressing Tim’s face flush to his naval.

“Keen are we?” Tim mutters, grinning and humming each word against Jon’s cock. A peek upward reveals Jon’s eyes are squeezed shut, his lower lip caged between his teeth. 

“Fuck,” Tim breathes, and lets his tongue drag over Jon’s cock, earning a delicious whimper. “You’re gorgeous.”

Jon seizes up again, his fingers tight as vices in Tim’s scalp.

He looks down, the corners of his eyes shining wet, ensnaring Tim in their honey brown pools.

Holding that gaze, Tim moves, flicking his tongue out and catching Jon’s cock with the tip. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Jon hisses, and Tim repeats the motion. Again, _again_ , quite forgetting his own pleasure until Jon surrenders and grinds his cunt fully against Tim’s mouth, sending a cascade of heat to the pit of Tim’s stomach.

Somewhere along the way, Tim successfully gets a fist around his own cock, and strokes slowly, carefully, edging himself because he rather did not anticipate that eating out his boss could be quite so gratifying, but… well… 

And, besides, Jon was _rather_ specific about his request, and after several moments of obscene slurps, Tim dares venture his fingers further in, stroking his index and middle at Jon’s entrance.

Jon trembles again, abruptly tugging Tim’s hair, stymieing Tim’s access to his quarry. He’s far too gone to consider feeling anything but _denied_ , and he leverages his best glare, a vicious thing of “ _Let me make you come_ ” that seems to get the message across, nicely.

Though not entirely the one Tim had anticipated, and, instead of conceding to Tim’s prowess, Jon coaxes him to his feet, kissing and licking his own slick from Tim’s lips.

“Jon, I -” Tim racks his brain for recourse, because this is beyond obscene, but any further rejoinder dies away as Jon wraps his long fingers around Tim’s cock, squeezing and stroking in aching, perfect tandem.

“I think I was very specific about what I wanted,” Jon murmurs into his mouth.

“I -” Tim tries again, stammering as Jon presses against his body, steering him backwards until the edge of the desk meets the backs of his thighs.

“I - I don’t have a condom,” he finally concludes, only for Jon’s efforts to turn immediately frenzied: biting bruise-deep kisses at his neck and carelessly rucking down his trousers.

“I don’t care,” Jon growls, and in a deft flurry of motion, effectively re-situates their positions, himself now braced over the desk on his elbows, his head hanging between his shoulders as he offers his arse and pretty pink cunt to Tim.

“Frankly,” he says, shuddering as Tim’s hands curl of their own accord around his hips. “I am _very_ fed up with this week, and a nice fuck sounds about as good an outlet as any.”

Had Jon not employed that imperious tone he typically reserves for chastising Martin, Tim might have deemed his little tirade, well, maybe not sexy, but… refreshingly lewd? As it stands, it comes off as more endearingly naive than anything, and Tim can’t help the grin that breaks across the surprised “o” of his mouth. 

“You’re kinda cute,” he teases, just to get a point across, “you know that, boss?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jon glowers over his shoulder.

Tim’s wittier instincts would _love_ to engage that, but there’s the grander issue of one Jonathan Sims—irritant extraordinaire—bent over his own desk and all but begging for a cock to fill him. It’s a situation straight out of the more inane pornos Tim relished guiltily in his youth, and one, apparently, that still _gets_ Tim, searing right down to the soles of his feet.

So—in perhaps a more uninspired metaphor—he suspends his disbelief, lets it float skyward, till it bumps against the ceiling and wanders into a far corner, out of sight and mind.

So that the only thing _present_ for his attention, is Jon. 

Jon, with his spine bowing inward as Tim places a palm flat to the small of his back, pushing up the hem of his jumper, coaxing out a beautiful arch in the vertebrae that swell through his skin.

Jon, and the litany of mewls he lets loose as Tim positions himself, guiding the head of his cock through Jon’s slick folds, rubbing up and down, barely catching his cock.

“Yeah?” He pants, as Jon keens an utterly _broken_ whimper.

“For God’s sake, Tim -” he starts, but the rest goes unfinished, Tim sinking into the wet heat of his cunt with a smooth, practiced thrust. 

“Fuck _fuck_ ,” Jon quakes beneath him, shoulders straining, head thrown back, and Tim struggles not to succumb similarly, the mere sight of Jon stretched and glistening around his cock nearly enough to drive him over the edge, the silken _tight_ sensation, notwithstanding.

“Jesus Christ, boss,” he manages, determined to keep some sort of composure, some sort of tacky aloofness to the intimacy of this.

“ _Move_ ,” Jon orders, as all Tim’s done is thrust halfway in and try to gather his composure.

“Yes _sir_ ,” Tim bookends his playful derision with a mean thrust that has him bottoming out, fully, and punching a small wail from Jon as he collapses atop the desk, arms giving out the way his legs had earlier.

Which inspires Tim to use the hand that _isn’t_ bruising fingerprints into Jon’s hip, snaking it round and teasing his cock as he picks up a shallow rhythm. 

“ _Fuck_ , you feel so _good_.” 

“N _mm_ , f-faster,” is all Jon says, and who is Tim to deny him? Or himself, for that matter. 

He’d like nothing more than to drag this on for ages, make Jon properly beg, but he’s a victim to circumstance, and the whole fucking-your-boss-in-his-own-office thing has rather gone straight to his cock, the heat building steadily, his body not entirely his own, dictated only by the chase of pleasure. 

Much to his chagrin—at least, later, when he truly thinks about it—he comes first. At his crest, he starts to pull out, but Jon growls—actually fucking _growls_ —and reaches back, gripping Tim’s wrist.

“ _Inside_ ,” he commands.

If he says anything further, Tim doesn’t hear it, his climax roaring through him in a rush of white noise and burning static, the slick slide of Jon’s cunt around him ruthlessly coaxing wave after wave of sweet, sticky heat through to his every limb, until he’s a veritable rag-doll, collapsed atop Jon. 

“Holy fuck,” he pants. 

“ _Gnh_ , Tim,” Jon shifts beneath him, hips wriggling.

“Sh-shit, sorry,” Tim rights himself, afraid he’s crushed the poor bloody waif of a man. But that’s not wholly it, not if the way Jon moans as Tim pulls out is any indication.

“Did you not -?” Tim starts, and Jon’s answering whimper is all he needs.

And because Tim is _nothing_ if not a goddamn gentleman, he goes to his knees like a penitent saint, his mouth perfectly level with Jon’s swollen cunt, cum and slick dripping down the insides of his thighs and coating his neglected cock.

“T-Tim that’s n-not ah _ah!_ ”

It’s a proper melody of sobs Tim earns as he buries his tongue in Jon once more, sucking and laving, before spreading out fully to lick rhythmic stripes from the tip of his cock. So lost in the bliss of taking Jon apart, Tim doesn’t actually realize he’s coming until a small gush of slick spills over his tongue and down his chin, the air around him battered with Jon’s cries of ecstasy and overstimulation. 

“ _Fuck fuck fuck_.”

He sounds so small and far away, but pride blooms unimpeded in Tim’s chest, and he administers a last few licks for good measure, just to hear Jon’s responding mewls.

“Same time next week?” He smirks this when they’ve resumed a more appropriate state of dress and distance, insufferably charming and not in the least bit remorseful.

Jon still wobbles slightly, and his clothes are a wreck despite the fastidiousness he took composing himself. Inasmuch as he could with such a mess between his legs. Tim’s no better, but he wears it like a badge, much like Jon did the bruises on his hips and throat before hiding the portrait of his pleasure beneath his jumper and trousers.

“You did mention a performance review at some point,” Tim presses, sweeping Jon in for a lingering kiss. “Any way I can possibly bribe you for full marks?”

“ _Tch_ ,” Jon scoffs, grinning against Tim’s mouth. “I can think of a few methods, Mr. Stoker.”

“I’m at your mercy, bossman,” Tim smiles, and kisses him again, and again. 

And lord help him, he might just actually be fond of the man.

**Author's Note:**

> Debated adding this end note, but in light of some truly disgusting shit, I have to put my foot down. I've seen far too much vile "work" in the feed, so if you write/consume/support works that fetishize rape/dubcon/etc, kindly get the fuck away from my work, you are not welcome in any capacity. Get help, and get the hell away from me.


End file.
